


Mother

by middlemarch



Series: Mercy March [1]
Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott, Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, F/M, Gen, Marriage, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Motherhood, Nursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6792658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary faces a challenge of motherhood but there is more help available than she expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother

Her chemise was stiff with dried milk all down the front, except for the patches newly wet with her let-down; she had grown accustomed to the sweet-sour scent she carried everywhere, a gentle fug that leached into the bed linens and hung about anything she touched. Daniel had not even awoken this time—simply cried out in his sleep, enough for her breasts to fill and overflow, but he settled back down with a little gurgle and Jed slept quietly throughout, an arm flung above his head, the hair on his chest and armpit just shadows in the night lit only by the fading moon. She peered across the bed at the baby in his basket, still tightly swaddled though he’d managed to get one hand up near his cheek. He slept furiously, his little brows drawn, the picture of Jed in his study. His face was soft, the curve of his cheek round from his consistent nursing. The whorl of his silken hair was such a dark brown it seemed black until she brought him into the morning sunlight and then the color showed its depth, the richness of mahogany, a little gleam of copper at his crown. He was three weeks old, a bonny big boy, nearly nine pounds when he was born squalling, a moment of transporting joy, and now she was afraid she was losing her mind.

The first week she had been so happy and Jed had been so happy and Daniel had slept and nursed so well—it seemed like an enchantment now. Or that she was the one now under a spell, while Jed and Daniel, Mrs. Hutchins in the kitchen, little Patty the housemaid, all went about as before and only she had the dagger of ice in her eye or her heart. The days went well enough, paced by Daniel’s demands and the household’s orderly running; Mrs. Hutchins still conferred with her over the menus and the chores, she sat to eat the meals prepared for her and sometimes was able to rest a bit when Daniel slept in his basket. Jed’s return home every day was triumphal. There was news of the hospital and the clinic to report, who he had met in the street, the questions he asked of Daniel’s progress and her own. He was a very attentive father, much taken with his son and not at all jealous as she had worried he might be. He delighted in holding the baby upright, Daniel looking so small in his father’s hands, and talking to him quite seriously of any topic he thought of—politics, advances in medicine, what they might see in the park if the weather held and Mamma allowed them to talk a walk this Sunday afternoon. Daniel was transfixed by Jed and would permit himself to be held this way for many minutes before Mary stepped in and took him again in her arms, where he would sleepily root even if she had just fed him.

The trouble came at night. Daniel would be settled for the few hours he slept between feedings and Jed would also be quickly asleep, careful not to jostle her unduly, but always sure to stroke her cheek and kiss her mouth gently and tell her how very much! How very much he loved her! And then both would sleep and she would too for a bit, til she woke again, the night stretching before her a dark, unforgiving highway full of fears and despairs. How her thoughts would race, round and round, over terrors the sunlight might subdue or contain, or she would feel a great black emptiness take her and know that she must conceal this from Jedediah, from Daniel, for anyone, lest they see how unnatural a mother she was, how poor a wife. Whatever aches and pains she had during the day were redoubled at night; the pressure of the milk filling her breasts sometimes unbearable when Daniel was not yet ready to suck, pangs in her belly when he nursed and the knitting together of the places Daniel had torn in his birth. She had consulted the midwife again and been dismissed with a brusque reassurance that she would heal in time, she should be grateful to have such a big, healthy boy and a husband who’d told the midwife he would not trouble Mary for her wifely duties until she gave him leave-- not like poor Mrs. McDonald down the road, with three babbies in just under three years.

In those long hours that spun out, endless until the dawn or until Daniel’s hungry cry broke her free, just a moment, before his suckle sent her back under, then she had started to hear her dead mother’s voice whispering to her. At first, she had thought it was just a dream or a memory and had taken a bit of comfort, but now it seemed she heard her mother’s voice all night long, always honest and kind, as she had been in life, full of encouragement and advice but unreal, otherworldly. Mary did not believe in spirits or demons or even angels; there was one God and God was ineffable. God was not her mother’s voice telling her to wind the baby now, or to try to settle back down to sleep, dear girl. She had almost told Jed on mornings when he woke refreshed and traced the circles under her eyes with a gentle finger but she could not bear to see him look at her differently or even to remind him of the fever dreams and voices that had taken him with the morphine and its removal. She would simply nod when he asked her to try to sleep a little in the afternoon or to take some air in the garden. She had told him just a little, aware of how it might cut him given his own mother’s cruel, living rejection, how she missed her mother and Caroline too, so far away in Chicago. He had carressed her then and said he’d understood but how proud her mother would be to see her so happily wed and such a fine little mother. She’d closed her eyes then to keep the tears from falling and accepted his kiss, more tentative than she’d expected.

This morning, Daniel was bright-eyed in his basket and she sat gingerly on the sofa with a pile of mending beside her, hoping to repair something, when Jed mentioned he had seen Reverend March in passing at the hospital and had asked Mrs. March to call if she might; he’d had a note yesterday than she would be by this afternoon and he’d already let Mrs. Hutchins know to make up a more robust tea than Mary might take for herself alone. Jed and Reverend March had struck up a friendship of sorts while they both served on a committee at the hospital trying to address the needs of the veterans who’d returned home to Massachusetts; Mary had been glad to discover he was the same Reverend March who had led the services when she had stayed with her Cousin Sarah for several months. She had always liked his thoughtful sermons and the way he would give each parishioner whatever time was needed, at the expense of his own rest and family obligations. She’d met his wife briefly, once or twice, and been impressed with her keen glance and welcoming smile. She thought Jed had meant to please her by suggesting the call, though she foresaw the need to convince someone else that she was well and happy, the fine little mother and wife Jed believed her to be. She had tried very hard to smile up at him as he left, his dark eyes more unsure than she’d seen in some time. He’d touched her cheek before he left, just a soft touch like the ones that used to be all they had, and had only said, “I love you, Molly,” and had gone out with his black satchel fastened and his topcoat neat.

Mrs. March had arrived at just the time Mary might have expected her to call; she’d had time to straighten the parlor and her dress, adjust the lace shawl that covered her breasts and might conceal any stains related to Daniel, pat at her hair and thread through the gold ear-bobs Jed had given her for her birthday. She greeted Mrs. March as Patty brought her in to the yellow papered parlor.

“Mrs. March, it is so kind of you to come to call. It has been a long time since we met in church, when Reverend March preached sermons I took so to heart. I know you must be busy. May I offer you some refreshment?” she began, relieved that etiquette scripted her lines at least at first.

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Foster, that would be very nice. It is a pleasure to come and see you. May I see the baby?” Mrs. March asked. She had a pleasant, low speaking voice and an easy way about her, her dress neat and clean but not terribly fashionable, her gloves grey to show less wear.

“Yes, of course. This is Daniel. I am not sure how long he will stay asleep and he may cry a bit when he wakes,” she said, drawing back the swaddle a bit so Mrs. March might see Daniel’s face, his plump cheeks and delicate nose. She sat back again, a little more heavily than she had planned, and winced just a bit.

“Oh, my dear, please don’t trouble yourself. I have four nearly grown daughters now, but I remember well the shrieks and squalls of babyhood. I wonder how you are finding new motherhood. It is a challenging adventure I think, one you cannot truly prepare for.” Mrs. March had sat down again in the blue chair to Mary’s right and was looking at her quite carefully but entirely uncritically.

“Well, yes, I-I would agree. It has been more than I could have imagined. It is sometimes… a bit harder than I had thought, though I mustn’t complain, I am so blessed to have a healthy child and such a thoughtful, generous husband,” Mary said, trying very hard to sound the unconcerned and blissfully happy new mother and failing, she knew, failing again.

“Mrs. Foster, if you don’t mind, may I be frank with you? I am not here simply to call to see your beautiful new son, or because for a time you attended my husband’s church and we have some fleeting acquaintaince from that time. Dr. Foster did not simply run into Reverand March in the street. We are here for several weeks while my husband consults to the hospital committee, but Dr. Foster sought him out for counsel. What he suggested was not just a social call between old acquaintances. Your husband, my dear, is very worried about you and does not not what to do. Having seen you, I can understand his concern. Oh, my dear Mrs. Foster, won’t you tell me what is troubling you so? I think it may not be so very bad, once you share it, and sometimes, it is easier with another woman, don’t you think?” Mrs. March finished, her tone so compassionate Mary felt tears spring to her eyes and fumbled for her handkerchief.

“It is very hard to say, I think, Mrs. March. For I know my feelings are wrong and my thoughts as well, and yet I cannot stop them, not at night in any case. I feel I should never sleep easily again,” she began, ashamed to have uttered the words aloud even, to have made the experience real between her and another.

“I believe God intends us to seek order and harmony in the world, in the world and within ourselves. You have undergone such a change and so recently—it can be so difficult to manage the, the transition, to regain a harmonious mind and soul, especially when the demands on you have grown so great. May I ask, has your mother made plans to visit you? Or, I believe you have an older sister?” Mrs. March replied.

“Oh! My mother is dead. She died four years past and my father before her. My sister Caroline has moved with her husband and children lately, from Boston to Chicago. She is happily settled there but we may only write for the present. She has four children already and I believe she expects a fifth this winter.” Mary said, her words sadly unadorned she knew.

“Then, Mrs. Foster, will you do me a great honor and allow me to ask you the questions your own mother would? I think perhaps it will help,” Mrs. March suggested.

“I think I am in no position to refuse, especially as my husband has begged you to see me,” Mary said, pleating the folds of her skirt between her fingers.

“Oh, you may always refuse and I will say nothing more than the regular pleasantries and then finish this very fine cup of tea and leave you. But I think if you open your heart, just a little, I may be some small help,” Mrs. March replied with a smile.

“I am not quite sure where to begin, Mrs. March,” Mary said.

“Perhaps, you may start by calling me by my Christian name, as we are to be friends? I am Margaret,” Mrs. March offered.

“Yes, please. Please call me Mary,” she said in return. Daniel wriggled about in his basket but his eyes remained closed. Still, Mary knew he would likely wake soon and need to nurse.

“Mary, what is troubling you so at night? I think you cannot sleep well because of young Daniel in any case, but it sounds as if that is not what has distressed you so,” Margaret March asked.

“Oh no! Daniel is not a trouble, not at all, he is such a good baby. It is just, since he was born, I have missed my own mother so, more than I had thought, more than I had thought possible… Oh Margaret! I hear her voice all night long! Surely, I must be going mad—How can I tell my husband? I cannot, he will never understand, as I do not understand, he thinks I am so happy--” she broke off, tears choking her. Margaret March leaned forward and took Mary’s hands in her own.  
“Dear Mary! Please, do not castigate yourself so—you have done nothing wrong. Let us talk more so I might understand you better—tell me about your mother’s voice, what does she say to you?” Margaret asked calmly, still holding Mary’s hands in hers.

“She tells me she loves me and I am doing well, or she tells me to look to Daniel, it is time for him to be winded or held. Sometimes she sings to me, the lullabies of my childhood. When I do not hear her, my mind spins with worries, fears for Daniel, I feel… untethered, my body aches so and the midwife has told me it is nothing, I must be patient, every woman suffers so but I cannot think it is true. Oh! She would be disappointed to see me thus, I am failing and there is no one I may turn to!” Mary explained, her voice uneven.

“Oh, Mary! I do not think you are going mad, or anything like it. This is why I asked you if your mother or sister were planning to visit—every woman needs help when the baby is born, it is the greatest undertaking of your life, and you ought to have your mother or sister with you, giving you guidance and comfort. I think you are just a dear young woman who wants her own mother,” Mary gave a sob but Margaret went on, “As you have not got that, I believe your mind has tried to find a way to give you that solace, when you need it most, but you have other recourse. You need good sleep, not from a tonic, but because your body and mind are ready, and nourishing food, fresh air—but most of all, you need companionship. I do not pretend to understand everything that might give you pause in sharing all this your husband, but Mary dear, I think you must trust him with it, as you have vowed when you married. I do not know Dr. Foster well, only through a brief acquaintance, but I have spoken much with my husband about him, and I cannot believe he would love you any less for sharing the secrets and hurts of your heart. Search your own heart— won’t the same man you loved enough to marry be one who will still love and comfort you through this? It is not uncommon, a woman struggling after the birth of even a much-wanted baby, as I think your little Daniel was. And yet, we usually only share these things between closest friends, sisters, mothers.” 

Margaret paused, then began to speak again, “I think if you trust your husband to care more for you and perhaps allow me to call again before we must leave Boston for our home, you will find your mother’s voice quiets, becomes again the soft consolation of memory and dream. And one more thing—perhaps you will let me write to you and see how you do, and if you are still low, I may send along my second oldest girl, Josephine, to stay with you a while. She can be a bit wild, but is is gentle with her siser Beth, who has been ill for several years, and I think her high spirits and kind heart may cheer you. Would you consider that, my dear?” she finished.

Mary nodded, tears streaking her cheeks but less fiery. Daniel finally worked himself to a cry, his eyes opened and mouth wide. Mary felt the milk rush down and gestured with a hand to the baby. Margaret smiled and nodded in return, “Yes, I can see your young master is eager for his meal and I have given you much to think on. Please do, please consider what I have said and I will, with your permission, return tomorrow and see how you have made out. Now I must go and I believe you will be occupied for some time, but do try and rest a bit before Dr. Foster comes home and do try to talk to him. I think he must love you very much,” Margaret March said as she rose, waving for Mary to stay where she sat, Daniel upon her lap, swaddle unwound.

“Yes, Margaret. I will try. And I would so like to see you again tomorrow and perhaps you might guide me a bit as my own mother would have,” Mary said.

“Of course, dear Mary, of course,” and Margaret left the room, shutting the door carefully behind her as Mary unbuttoned her bodice with her left hand and swiftly put Daniel to her breast. He relaxed immediately, his focus upon suckling entirely for a few moments, then she saw he looked up at her with his father’s dark eyes. She would tell Jed tonight, after dinner when they sat in the parlor, or perhaps as they lay in their bed, the curtains drawn against the night, while she rested her head against his heartbeat. She thought she would look at him and see her son’s eyes and they would not judge her but only reassure and love her. 

And she was correct, for when she told him that night, Daniel safe in his basket, Jed had pressed her to him very gently but very close and did not tell her she was silly or demand to know why she had not said something sooner. He had only stroked her arms and traced her face with his fingertips and whispered to her all the love in his heart, his eyes bright with tears and relief, “My Molly has come back to me, oh thank God! my Molly has come back.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is my "mother" Mother's Day prompt response-- pretty angsty but it ends happily. I feel like there is a lot of potential for Mercy Street/Little Women cross-over, so I tried to finesse it a little in this story.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Seven Years a Mother](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10955796) by [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow)




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